Dec. 11, 2016 — My father-in-law, William, died early this morning.
I often joked that he was immortal, given that he lived to be 100 years old and, until the last months of his life, had never spent the night in a hospital. A lifelong skinny guy, he loved to eat…butter and eggs and bacon and Half and Half on his cereal. Vegetables? Not so much.
He was kind and funny and generous and the most optimistic person I’ve ever known. But the thing I most appreciated about him was his love of women. That began with his tiny feisty mother, Big Mama, a Southern belle from whom he inherited his appetite, sharp wit, and longevity: she lived to be 98.
The love of his life was Helen Clarice Gibson, the shy petite artist and poet to whom he was married for 67 years. When she developed Alzheimer’s, he tenderly cared for her at home until he couldn’t; then, he drove twice a day to the nursing home to offer her tiny bites of soft fruit and chocolate.
As a widower, he “took up with” Dottie Mae, and for several years, already in his late 80’s and early 90’s, he would drive 3 ½ hours from his lake house in the Hill Country to Victoria to visit her. When he moved to Dallas in 2012, he met Norma at his retirement home, and he spent hours contentedly watching her assemble jigsaw puzzles.
In recent months, his contact with women narrowed to the adoring widows on his floor at The Forum, the brusque aides and perky therapists who tended him when his health failed, and his Dallas family — granddaughter Holly and me. A special light in his eyes blinked on any time Holly entered the room; I imagine he saw his Helen in her quiet gentleness.
My role in William’s life changed after Helen’s death. Until then, I gave my attention to my mother-in-law, while Charlie spent time with his dad. The two slapped on their tool belts and made multiple runs to Home Depot. Later, when it was just the three of us, I noticed how William lingered at the breakfast table, eager to talk to me. Charlie took the hint and wandered off, leaving the two of us to discuss the things men don’t talk about with each other.
My father-in-law had things to say, but mostly, he was a champion listener. He remembered stories I told him about my family and friends, and he asked about them by name. I could tell him about my work, my yoga classes, a new recipe, neighborhood gossip, or some TV show I liked…and he showed interest in it all. We shared a love of genealogy, Tennessee, and the comic strip Lou Ann.
William taught me that “98 percent of the things we worry about never happen.” He was imperturbable, unfailingly polite, physically graceful, an old-fashioned gentleman who, even after he used a cane, opened the car door for me. Until the end, he favored wearing a much-mended cardigan sweater because so many women had complimented him on it.
A man of his generation, it wasn’t easy for him to say I love you. Recognizing that, Holly once teased him: “I love you Granddad, but it’s okay if you don’t say it back.” And then suddenly, it became easier. As I was leaving him one afternoon last winter, I took his hand and kissed him on the forehead. He looked up and without any prompting said, “I love you.”
But I already knew that. My father-in-law loved women…and we returned the favor.
